O, Canada; You Seem to Want Me, Baby
How CANADA Keeps Trying to Keep Me in its Borders, but Won't Admit it Wants Me.
Much of the U.S is on pins and needles watching the post-insurrection mid-term elections. Will tight and contentious races go the way we want? Will bleakness yield to hope? Is Georgia on my mind? Ab-so-peachin’-lutely. But you know who, or what seems to be thinking about me? Not California. Not New York. Germany could give a rat's ass. But in case things here go tits up, it seems that one locale is opening its arms to welcome me, offering me an escape. Or, maybe just the opportunity to contact one of its specialists and fill out an evaluation to see if I’m worthy…
O, Canada.
To date, you’ve played coy. You’re always there, quietly on the fringes, saying “no,” yet showing “yes.” It’s a new era now, Canada. Don’t play games. Just come out and say it. You know you want me, baby (Canada).
My family has ‘dabbled’ in Canada. One of my great-grandmothers was born there. Her husband, my great-grandfather (was) moved there as a child. My grandfather was born there but wasn’t considered a Canadian or British citizen, simply a British subject. Gee, thanks for the warm embrace of inclusion, Canada.
Despite not fully welcoming my family into the Canadian fold, growing up in northwestern Washington, my mom recalls believing that O’ Canada was her national anthem. Her neck of the woods tuned in more Canadian than U.S. television channels, and the stations back then signed off at night with color bars and “O, Canada”.
Time hop a couple of generations and maybe Canada is changing its tune about my family.
One summer during my early high school years, my mother wanted to show her Australian friend where she grew up, and from there, visit Canada. This was, ah hem, a while ago, before we needed passports or had Real IDs to cross our northern border. My prior visits to Canada had never been an issue, so no worries. Right?
As per usual, we rode the Coho from Washington to Victoria, B.C., Canada. We visited the Butchart Gardens, hit the James Bay Tea Room because the Impress was too touristy, and shopped for Rogers’ Chocolates and Murchies tea – yet sadly, not a Mountie in sight. And, after a day on Canadian soil, it was time to board the ferry back to Washington.
It was a sunny day and the winds whipped off the waters onto the ferry’s deck. Upon docking, all us passengers then mooed our way to customs to be cleared to enter the U.S. I knew the drill. I also knew that the border guards drilling me always got tripped up on the point that I was born in a different state than I grew up in. And, as expected, the border guard grilled me on where I was born, where I’m from, and then proceeded to get a bit flustered that those are two different states. Then the real fun kicked in.
“ID please,” the border guard asks.
“ID? I’m 15. I don’t have ID. (pause) Well, do you want to see my student body card? It has my picture on it.”
“You don’t have ID?” he huffs.
“No, I’m 15, don’t drive, and we don’t need passports to travel to Canada.”
Then my mom chimes in, “You can keep her.”
Uncomfortable pause.
“She’s great at eye-rolling and is a picky eater. How much pizza do you have?”
The guard squishes his face; huffs some more.
More uncomfortable silence.
“Ok, you can go, but you should really have ID.”
‘Should have ID’. Hahahahaha, Canada tried to keep me!
O, Canada.
Fast forward many lifetimes. I now have a kid and he wants to go to… Canada! Recounting the trip is for another day, but as is always the case, all good things must end and it was time to return stateside.
“Aw, Mom, do we have to?”
“Yes, dear.”
TSA-Pre is not recognized in Canada, so we had to slug our way through general security - not a party. We went through customs on the Canadian side and I had to coach my mouthy, verbal diarrhea youth to only answer the questions they asked. Customs agents don’t find many “jokes” a nine-year-old finds funny all that humorous. But finally, we reach the gate to wait, and wait, and wait some more.
The flight before ours hadn’t even arrived let alone departed. Those passengers grew ever more irritated. Some sacrificial airline staffer was finally sent to appease the salty passengers with little information and even saltier chips.
The time then came for our flight to board – still no plane. And, the passengers from the previous flight were still being told to wait for parts or a plane or parts and the plane to arrive from Dulles. There was also no gate agent or flight crew – things looked pretty bleak for the departure of any flight. And our only communication came through meager updates through the airline’s app – “Flight – On Time; Flight – Delayed; Flight – Delayed; Flight -Delayed some more.” What???
Then a voice rang out, “The pilot’s gone home.”
The waiting room burst into angry rumbles.
“I was sitting next to the pilot for our flight and he just got told to go back to the hotel. Our flight is canceled.”
The kvetching continued. Then, my loud travel companion shatters the din of discontent, “Mama, is Canada trying to keep you again?”
“Seems so, son; could be.”
A month and a half later, I still haven’t received any notification from the airline that the flight was canceled.
Now, you could say that this was just another bad travel experience like so many people have been experiencing of late.
BUT…
Since being back on U.S. soil, Canada has been trying to woo me to its land of maple and Mounties with emails tempting me to apply for residency.
“Why wait? Start living the life you’ve always dreamed of!” (emails with pretty pics are under the copyright of Canada Visa.org)
“To discover your perfect pathway to Canada for you and your family, click the link below to request a callback.”
Wait. Let me check those election results… (maps under copyright of individual publications)
…OK! Maybe I will!!